By a window, mid Fall

Sunday always has that gamey flavour
a secret tilt of baking dish, the table spoon
of flour. My arm in redoubt against a raiding fork,
the last of the potatoes, salty crisp top of mouth.
Toddlers falling off the soft chocolate of family,
lips fat with mutton, mashed peas for chins.
Mint by the gulley trap in a mauve furze of hope,
turned sweet and sour alight in a crystal jug.
The shank bone boiled to briny float
somehow the first glimpse of fallow sea.


Published in Poppy Road Review April 30, 2019